TMNT: Stir of Echoes
by princessebee
Summary: Fifteen years after their relationship ended in a blaze of fury & cruel words, Raphael & Amber meet again in an alien bar on a space station high above earth. Can they resolve the damage that was done? Set within the continuity of my 2007 TMNT stories. Warnings for language and sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

_After all this time, I wanted to revisit Raphael & Amber's relationship and see where it could've gone. This is set within the personal fanon I established in my stories: "Loser", "Dust of Life", "Traffic", "Prey", "Sparring", "Choices" and my other most recent fic "Old Shoes & Picture Postcards", all of which can be accessed through my profile._

**ooo**

Amber was flirting with a triceraton when he entered the bar and even from all the way on the other side of the expansive room, even across the dozens of variously sized and shaped bodies that densely packed the space, even against the din and gloom and haze, her gaze was drawn to him as immediately and surely as if they had been the only two people there.

Her knees immediately went weak and her heart pounded hard against her sternum. She was unprepared for the sickening rush of feeling that coursed through her at sight of him – a horrible jumbled mess of emotions that had her gripping the bar for support, her prospective client forgotten entirely as she seriously considered running away, vanishing into the crowd. The moment passed and she knew she couldn't possibly – but then other awful possibilities occurred to her – maybe he hadn't seen her. Hadn't recognised her. Maybe he was there just to cuss her out, finally get his own back.

Maybe he wasn't even there for her.

Now she had seen him after all this time, and maybe she would stand there, leaning up against that bar, waiting and waiting and waiting… and he would not appear at her side.

The triceraton who was at her side huffed and snorted for her attention and Amber struggled to regain her focus. She tossed long red hair over her shoulder and attempted a winning smile, suddenly hating how absolutely she had lost her cool, all her barriers utterly shattered in an instant – by just a glimpse of him.

"Would you get me another drink, baby?" she cooed at the massive saurian, striving to appear as implacable and unperturbed as ever. As he turned to the bar she couldn't resist a quick glance around the room, hating herself for the moment of weakness. Nothing. And the disappointment then was as devastating as a blow.

The triceraton handed her the drink, a large gin and tonic in a tall glass with a twist each of lemon and lime. She took the glass with an attempt at a coquettish smile but it felt false and strained and she reprimanded herself sharply. "_Fifteen years_," she told herself fiercely. "_Fifteen years. Why the fuck do you even care?_" Out loud she asked the saurian – whose name she had forgotten almost instantly – "ever been with a human girl before, baby?"

She felt stupid uttering the hackneyed line. But so much of her work was about being able to say that shit and make it sound real. If she was even a little off her game it all began to feel too ridiculous and that would throw her off even more. And if she couldn't perform convincingly, repeat business would drop off.

For the moment, the triceraton hadn't noticed – men usually didn't until her insincerity had become the figurative equivalent of a sledgehammer to the face – and rested one arm on the bar leaning down towards her.

"I've been wanting to try," he said lecherously, his breath a gust of moist warmth on her face. "I'm particularly curious about hair – " and he arrogantly lifted several of her red locks up in one clawed paw, running them through his fingertips, apparently captivated by the way it caught the dim glow of the meagre lighting. Her hair had always been an asset in her work and even more so now that hairless alien species were crossing her path quite often. But Raphael had also loved her hair and with him so closely present in her mind right then, a thousand intimate memories hovering and primed to be painfully recollected, the triceraton's touch only made her feel sick and suddenly she was backing off, unable to go through with it, unable to pretend any more.

She didn't even bother attempting an explanation to the spurned saurian who shouted after her angrily as she ducked quickly into the crowd, moving as fast as she could behind the biggest aliens she saw. She'd lost it. She'd fucking lost it. At work. Holy fucking shit. She _never _lost it. And especially never at work. She'd been in this game since she was fourteen. She'd seen some fucking shit. She was a pro through and through. But she'd lost it.

She found her way to the booths that lined the rounded walls of the bar and stumbled along until an empty one presented itself. She slid in and smoothed back the hair at her temples, unnecessarily as her coiffure remained perfect, then swore out loud when she realised she'd left her fucking drink behind. Furiously, she tapped a cigarette out of her case and lit it with trembling hands, smoking it quickly.

For a couple of weeks after she had seen Leonardo, she'd had a stupid twinge of hopeful anticipation hovering, no matter how hard she rebuked herself for it. After all, Leonardo had not promised to say anything. And even if he did, it didn't mean Raphael would want to see her. But still that feeling had lingered no matter how many times she told herself she was being a foolish child.

But a few weeks passed and there had been no sign of him and that rare, childish optimism had faded to a dull and bitter ache she distracted herself from with constant working, shopping and the beauty treatments she indulged in heavily – Quadrivium was extensively equipped with all manner of services for short and long term staying travellers. She'd resigned herself to the reality he would not come and – well, why _should_ he? She had dumped him, after all. Cut him off brutally and then fled the city without a word. And why? Because he'd been worried about her. He'd loved her and been worried about her and she had seen that as a hostile attempt to control her.

Amber sucked back hard on her cigarette, finishing the rest in one big drawl, and then held the smoke in her lungs for several long moments until her vision swam and her head reeled. She let it all out in a great gust, smoke billowing all around her.

When she'd seen him – it _had_ to have been him – all that hope had come galloping back, even as she had reeled with apprehension and anxiety.

Amber let her forehead drop to her fingertips, pressing her eyes shut tight against the sting there.

**ooo**

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Raphael had watched Amber from across the room, partly reluctant to approach her while she worked. Partly terrified – and entirely resentful of _that _always unfamiliar and unwelcome emotion. Mostly dealing with the confusing torrent of emotions that raged beneath his plastron.

When Leonardo had told him about his encounter with Amber, it had been several weeks after the fact. It had taken his brother that long to decide whether or not he should say anything. That caused enough contention on its own – they were _long_ past the time Leonardo had any business trying to "protect" him and the two had had it out in a way they hadn't for years. But he had also been unprepared for the impact even just hearing her name would have on him, the barrage of feeling it recalled.

It had sent him into a brooding temper that lasted several days – something else he had all but left behind. Long hours spent in his room, musing uncomfortably and bitterly on the past. Longer hours in the dogo, pummelling the life out of the punching bags until he was drenched in sweat and each breath dragged painfully from his lungs and his body was so taut with exhaustion and pain he could only collapse into sleep.

At first he'd thought – _fuck her_. She'd walked out on him. Leaving him to wonder if she had ever cared about him at all. Leaving him to never be quite sure if she was alive or dead – and towards the end the latter had been a constantly looming spectre that had filled him with a dread that every time he entered her squat it would be to find her body. Now she was cleaned up and feeling bad about what she'd done? Good. Let her stew. Let her feel bad. Let it eat away at her forever, for all he cared. She deserved it.

But in amongst all that old pain rubbed suddenly raw, there were the sweeter memories, of the good times. How, for a while, they had found a solace and a comfort in each other they had both thought – and at such tender ages – was never to be theirs. Two freaks together against the world. Even if that hadn't been entirely true, it had felt that way. Remembering Amber at that time was immensely bitter sweet, knowing he had seen her a way no one else ever had. She was always so outwardly cynical and sardonic, dispassionate and defiant. But when they were alone together, as they grew closer, she became unexpectedly sweet and vulnerable, dropping her tough girl act and revealing a tenderness and silliness that was his and his alone. With him she had been what she truly was at heart – a girl barely out of her teens, who wanted to have fun, who wanted to love, who wanted happiness. She'd spent so long denying this to herself, and he'd spent so long convincing himself he would never know what it felt like to be loved, that for a little while it had seemed like they discovered the world and all its secrets together. It made his heart ache.

Shadow had missed him and sought him out, pushing open the door of his room in a child's attempt at stealth, thinking the creaking would go unnoticed if she just moved the door slowly enough, and he'd half-smiled despite himself.

"Hey kiddo," he said from where he was lying on his hammock, the room dark except for the twilight glow that dribbled in through the windows, one palm still pressed against his face, against the pain of recollection that throbbed through him.

She padded quickly across the room, her six year old feet in slipless socks, and when she'd got to his hammock he'd reached down with one arm and scooped her up easily, enjoying the way she giggled – he recalled vaguely being so small still that Splinter could hoist him with similar ease, and how it had always been just a little bit fun – and let her squirm and wiggle around on his plastron until she was comfortable, the heat from her body absorbing wonderfully into his. He stroked her hair idly and in the closeness of her, that fragile little human who trusted him so absolutely, he was comforted. _This_ was what it was all about.

"Why are you sad, Uncle Raphie?" she asked him and he sighed heavily, feeling her rise and fall with his plastron.

"Just takin' a walk down memory lane," he replied and she giggled and lifted her head, looking up at him with the amusement that could only be found on the face of a child when an adult had said something completely nonsensical.

"But you're lying down!" she pointed out in a 'duh, silly' voice, her mouth all full of gapped baby teeth and he couldn't help grinning back.

"Zat so?" he countered and in one swift powerful movement he leapt to his feet, tossing her into the air at the same moment so that she shrieked in delight. He caught her securely and threw her up once more then realised April would hang him out to dry if he got her worked up this close to bedtime and held her giggling form close against his plastron, leaving the dark sadness of his room for the bright, cheeriness of the hallway.

"C'mon kiddo, show me what you been workin' on at school."

Later, he felt grounded once more, the uncomplicated sweetness of her child's world bringing him back firmly into the present and counting his many blessings. Nothing could take that away. If he went and saw Amber again, no matter what happened, his family would be here and waiting for him afterwards.

So he'd made his decision.

But no matter how much he thought he'd mentally prepared himself, how, as he had arranged the time off work, packed the few things he needed and set off on his journey, he had hardened his resolve and vowed that he would be impassive and unaffected, the sight of her had swept through those resolutions like a tsunami, dashing them all away.

Leonardo had told him how she had changed but he was still floored to see it for himself. Leaning up against the bar in an expensive-looking pearly white dress that caught what little light there was and made her stand out, she seemed healthy and vibrant. She had some meat on her bones. There was a curve to her figure that had never been there before. The dark circles were gone from under her eyes and the hollows in her cheeks had filled out. Her hair was styled and groomed and with makeup on she seemed glamorous and lovely. As far a cry from the painfully thin, unkempt, ugly little wretch decked out in children's clothes acquired from the Good Will as could be.

Raphael hovered near the wall, unnoticed by the jumbled assortment of patrons in the bar, and watched as she smiled at the triceraton, and for a sickening instant it was just as it had been seventeen years ago – her working the streets of New York while he watched over her from the shadows.

The unwelcome wave of nostalgia was almost too much for him and he sagged against the wall as his stomach churned violently and he hated it, hated himself for being there and hated her for making him feel this way – this weak and this vulnerable – when he hadn't even spoken to her yet.

He'd come so far in all that time. He'd done so much, changed so much. He was no longer that frustrated, rageful kid who had tried to solve the burden of emotions he didn't know how to manage with his fists, who had been so quick to anger and lash out at his family, troubled by an existence that seemed like it would be forever on the margins. Amber had been witness to the worst of that. It had been to her he'd confided when at his most turbulent. He'd given her his heart when he'd always sworn to never be so foolish, and she'd crushed it.

But he wasn't that kid anymore. He'd known heartache – even caused a little of his own – since her. There had been dozens of battles, terrible obstacles to overcome. He'd always be a hothead but he had so much more control over his temper. His contentious relationships with his brothers had resolved, matured and deepened. He'd learned to open up with them – to a point, anyway – and not to dwell so much in maudlin, furious thoughts.

Goddamnit, he _shouldn't_ feel so fucking weak like this. He was too old for this shit.

He was furious at the apprehension he felt but more furious at the cowardly thought that followed – to turn heel and leave. That moment of disturbingly tempting gutlessness was enough to root him to the spot, determined to see this through – nothing could be so bad as knowing he'd been a spineless wimp, skulking out after he'd come all this way. It would be too much like what she had done to him and whilst turn-about might be fair play, he was _no_ coward.

And when a moment later Amber, all too clearly distressed, backed away from her saurian mark and fumbled into the crowd, he did not resist the way his emotions focused into automatic concern and went after her, ignoring how that too seemed an echo from the past.

**ooo**

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

The glass thudded onto the tabletop with a thunk, a little liquid slopping over the rim and Amber started and looked up, her heart stopping for an instant as he slid into the booth opposite her, setting his own drink down.

"Hey," he said, his voice deeper and rougher than she remembered, carefully guarded even as he was nonchalant. She was stricken with mortification, realising he'd been witness to her distress, had seen her defenceless and weak and for a moment, far too long, she simply couldn't reply or do anything other than stare. It felt like her heart was in a vice, squeezing down painfully so that she could scarcely breathe, and his cool composure in the face of her vulnerability made it more unbearable.

And her pride returned in a rush that had her tossing her hair back and lifting her cigarette to her lips, posturing like she was twenty-one and showing off for the cops again.

"Hey," she replied, forcing herself not to stare, to tilt her head and regard him from lidded eyes as though it had been only hours instead of years since she had seen him last and she wasn't hungrily devouring every inch of him with her gaze.

He'd gotten bigger. A _lot_ bigger. He was giving Dwayne Johnson a serious run for his money. He seemed taller too and a lot more comfortable in his skin. A black patch covered one eye and that stirred tenderness in her as she pondered the story behind it. His face had matured and there was a rugged, unaffected manliness to the set of his features that set her heart fluttering. There were new scars – including deliberate ones, Japanese characters carved into the leathery skin of his shoulders and arms. She wondered what the raised, pearlised flesh would feel like beneath her fingertips and her stomach violently flip-flopped, a sudden warmth pooling in her loins. In consternation, she reached for the drink he had brought her and took a generous gulp, the bite of the sour liquid calming her.

"Thanks," she said next, indicating the glass, and he half-raised his shoulders, indicating it was nothing.

They were both silent for a moment, the intervening years stretching between them to impassable lengths, and she wondered how she looked to him and if he liked what he saw, then disdained herself for such a frivolous thought.

He spoke first, tilting his head to the side and rolling his shoulders back, so unpretentiously macho in his manner that she swooned a little, guising it behind another draw on her cigarette.

"Ya need me to go sort somethin' out back there?" he queried and for a moment she didn't understand.

Then comprehension dawned as she realised he had witnessed _the_ _whole thing_, her loss of cool, her flinching from the triceraton and her frantic retreat and for an instant the humiliation was unbearable. Then it hit her he hadn't associated her behaviour with his presence. He'd assumed the saurian had threatened her in some way. He was offering to go over and pick a fight on her behalf. It was all too much to take in.

Amber forced a smile and shook her head, leaning back against the vinyl of the banquette and crossing an arm over her chest. "Nah. He was no trouble. Just didn't feel like it."

It was all just so much like the old days. An uncomfortable guilt flooded her and she paused. It would be all too easy to let him assume the triceraton had upset her and she was just playing the tough girl as always, taking it in her stride. But she was trying to avoid the mistakes of her past. He had come all this way to see her – how could she be less than honest with him?

"Actually, the thing is – " she heard herself begin before she was even aware she would speak, and she abruptly stopped, flustered. He cocked the ridge over his intact eye, an alertness suddenly there and she could tell from the set of his jaw he both anticipated and dreaded what she might say.

She took a soothing gulp of her drink, a calming draw of her cigarette, and knew from the flicker of his one emerald green eye he noted how badly her hands were shaking.

"The thing is, I saw you enter," her chest was tight and she was panting a little as the full import of what she had committed to confessing racketed around her chest. "And I thought you weren't going to speak to me."

There it was then. Out on the table.

She couldn't look at him, couldn't even look out around the bar as though her disclosure had been no big deal and she was more interested in the motley of patrons. She gazed down at her hand where it curled loosely against the green perspex, cigarette propped between two fingers, her acrylic nails perfectly filed and brilliantly red, and felt the tears well.

How was she even supposed to begin here?

Long moments of silence stretched between them, the constant din around them seeming distant, unreal. Finally, Raphael cleared his throat and she caught a flicker of movement as he picked up his drink and took a swig.

"Well," he said raspily as he set the glass down. "I did."

Amber lifted her head to gaze at him, needing to see what feeling lurked in his eyes, how much bitterness and resentment was there. The patch was jarring; she was still unused to it, but she focused on the one eye he still had and he did not flinch from her gaze, did not try and hide his feelings as the defensive young man he'd been would have, but stared back at her steadily.

There was no anger there – not right then – but his guard was up and she caught the glimmer of long-buried pain beneath it. But there was receptiveness as well. He was willing to meet her half-way. Receptiveness and a touch of something else as, as though he couldn't help it, he broke the gaze for his eye to play about her face, over her hair and down across her shoulders and torso. Tenderness. Yes, tenderness. And the sheer miracle of it laid bare her heart so when his gaze lifted to hers directly again it was as though she was naked before him, and she didn't care, merely basked.

And it swept up between them in an overwhelming gush that threatened to engulf them both at once; utterly undeniable and absolutely tangible: desire.

Desire so raw and hungry it left her giddy, shaking and flushed, suffused with feeling she didn't know she was even still capable of. If he had reached for her then, she would've let him take her on the table, right there, in the bar.

Of course he didn't. But she saw his nostrils flare as he inhaled, the way his muscles tightened along his arms, how the loose fists that had been resting on the table top suddenly clenched, and she knew he was thinking about it.

Flustered, she looked away, yet again lifting her cigarette to her mouth only to discover it had burned down to the filter and she hastily discarded it and reached for another.

It would've been easy enough to suggest then that they go back to her galley, to leave words behind and sort this all out in action – it was what he had always preferred. If she asked him right then he would go with her, she knew, and the yearning for it filled her until she threatened to burst with it.

But it wouldn't be right. She couldn't do that to him. If they acted on mere attraction now, maybe they would never truly resolve the damage done all those years ago. And she owed him better than that.

So she held her tongue.

The intensity of that surge of passion subsided to a resistible level and they both shifted awkwardly in their seats.

Amber took a long sip of her drink, tapped ash from her cigarette and took a drawl, paused a moment longer until she was sure she wouldn't break down and then said:

"Raphael, I'm sorry."

It was all she could manage before the lump rose in her throat. So much for not breaking down. She stopped and swallowed hard, struggling to keep control.

She knew if she cried then he would be moved to comfort her. Few things could break through Raphael's tough shell like a few tears. It was possible that had changed, but didn't seem likely – his hard demeanour concealed a soft heart few could imagine. He would want to hold her and she wasn't sure she would have the strength to resist – and that wouldn't be fair. This wasn't about making _her _feel better.

"I'm sorry for everything I did to you," she tried again, holding it together. But she wasn't sure how to elaborate on that and lapsed into silence again.

Raphael was regarding her warily, his head turned a little to the side so that his good eye had full view of her, the two enormous fingers of his right hand tapping out a quiet, agitated little rhythm on the table. She sensed an impulse in him to wave it off, to tell her it was nothing, all in the past, no big deal. It seemed he still struggled to talk about intense feelings – his, especially.

But instead he raised his chin and hardened his gaze, choosing fight over flight as he always did and always would.

"Why did you do it?" he queried bluntly.


	4. Chapter 4

Amber stared back at him, revealing so much more than he suspected she was aware of. Her blue eyes were round and vibrant with anguish and her trembling hands constantly fidgeted, with her hair and the straps of her dress, with the cigarette case she kept close at hand. She had never allowed herself to be so agitated in front of him before, and he had seen her more honestly vulnerable than anyone. He resented it slightly, for it made it hard for him to resist the urge to touch her, to draw her to him. On the other hand, if she had tried to keep up the tough-as-nails façade, he would've hated her.

But maybe that would've been better.

The thing is, he _knew_ why she had done it. He had figured it all out, a long time ago. But he wanted to hear her _say_ it. He had realised, many years before, that "closure" wasn't something it was always possible to get and that it was an arbitrary concept anyway. Sometimes all you could do was just deal with it and move on.

But maybe hearing her say it would bring some more final resolution to his heart, all the same.

She crossed her arms defensively on the table in front of her, her palms rubbing at her upper arms as though she were warding off a chill. She was carefully considering how to respond and he saw the bluntness of his query had chased off, for the moment, the tears that had been hovering, and was glad.

"Because it was the easy choice to make," she said at length, her tone as blunt as his but slow and calm. "Because I was selfish and believed in a delusion I had to sustain to justify my selfishness. Because I didn't want to admit I no longer had a choice. Because – " and her voice finally wavered and her lashes fluttered helplessly and he stiffened outwardly even as his inward resolve threatened to crumble. " – because being in love with you was too hard. And required too much change. In too many ways. Because it was just easier to go on as I had been."

She stopped and sighed, seeming suddenly exhausted, her shoulders slumping. She didn't seem to dare look at him, her eyes lowered and gazing to the side, into the glass she had drained, where ice cubes steadily melted.

For his part, he was as impassive and still as a wall of stone. But within, there was turmoil. Nothing she said had flicked a switch inside of him. Nothing felt any different. There was no relief, no sudden peace. He reached for it, desperately, but came back wanting. And suddenly, the anger was there in its place, a welcoming relief. Anger was simple. Anger he understood.

"Do you have any idea what I went through when you disappeared?" his voice was a low rumble, tightly controlled but no less furious for that. His hands coiled into tight fists once more and his teeth clenched.

Her eyes darted back to meet his and he thought he saw a spark of relief in them as well, as though his anger was easier to deal with than his calm, and he resented it deeply. He realised he very much did not want _any _of this to be easy on her. _Fuck her_.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Her eyes welled up again and he shifted edgily, inhaling in hard through his nostrils.

"Don't you dare cry," he said harshly, yet still whisper quiet.

She breathed in deeply, forcing herself to calm. He'd seen her cry only once before and it had practically torn him apart. She had been so resolutely tough back then, refusing ever to give into such raw expression. Now, here she was, threatening to blubber on him every other second. If there were anything that was a testament to how much she had changed, that was as good a one as any. He just wasn't sure if it was good enough for him.

Raphael shifted his weight, cracked his knuckles against each other and tightened his jaw, half wishing some punk alien would come over and try to start trouble, give him an outlet for the rage which, although at first had been comforting and familiar, was now stifling him.

"You know, for a damn long time I wondered if I'd done wrong by you," he muttered, staring with narrowed gaze out into the bar where the petty dramas of dozens of aliens carried on, heedless of the petty drama occurring in their little booth. The words were no easier to get out despite how far he had come over the years.

Amber nodded and finally lit another cigarette, looking about as though for a waitress. He just bet she was desperate for another drink. So was he, for that matter.

"For a long time I convinced myself you had," she admitted quietly.

He turned his face toward hers, suddenly needing desperately to hear it confirmed even though he had resolved it to himself years ago.

"But I didn't?" he queried, and she nodded slowly, her head appearing too heavy for her neck.

"You didn't," she agreed and there was such naked surrender in her voice, such a note of despondency at once resigned in the recognition of all she had done, that all of a sudden he forgave her.

It was as simple as that.

And he reached across the table and took her hand in his, his huge one entirely enclosing hers, the warmth of her skin radiating into his flesh. She raised her head and stared at him wonderingly, her glossy lips loosely parted.

"You loved me?" He was embarrassed by the hoarseness of his voice, but it was too late to dwell; the words were said.

Her entire expression suffused with a medley of emotion so unrestrained she was, in that moment, more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before and his heart threatened to break.

"I've never loved anyone more," she spoke as though she only just realised it herself and in the depths of her eyes was a profound loss he realised had been with her ever since she had left.

It couldn't make up for all the hurt, of course. But it made a difference.


	5. Chapter 5

After that, he gestured for a waitress and they got more drinks in – a lot more drinks. Funny that sitting still and saying so little could've left them both so drained and wrecked. She felt like she'd gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson and she could see the exhaustion etched into Raphael's face, his shoulders slumped over.

Her hand still tingled from when he had held it, as though he'd taken a piece of her when he let go. She ached to reach out to him, but wanted to leave such intimacies in his hands. It was only right. To distract herself, she unclasped her bejewelled purse and took out a compact mirror, quickly checking her reflection.

Opposite her, he shifted, clearing his throat and looking away. "You look great," he said gruffly and she felt a blush rise unexpectedly to her cheeks, as though she were sixteen years old again.

"Really?" she replied, pleased, and felt a little of her old bravado come back. Snapping the mirror shut and slipping it back into her purse, she tossed her hair back over her shoulder and leant with an arm strung over the banquette, jutting her chest out. "How great?" This was safe territory again.

Raphael huffed a little laugh, flicking his gaze back over her and dropping it to the table, a shy smirk fighting its way up his lips. "_Damn_ great," he said, his voice flush with appreciation and she couldn't help beaming.

"You look good too," she said, a little coy, a little flirtatious, a little lusty.

He grimaced and scratched his scalp with a huge finger. "Well, I ain't never been pretty but at least you know what you're gonna get." In an unthinking gesture, his hand slipped to the patch that covered one eye and he touched it self-consciously for a second before his arm dropped back to the table.

Amber laughed, shook her head. "Really, Raphael" – at that moment his name on her lips heightened the intimacy, making the colour rise in her cheeks again. "You have no idea. You're a sight for sore eyes." She couldn't resist trailing her eyes over the rippling muscle of his arms – but for just a moment.

If it hadn't been so unmanly, Raphael may have squirmed a little. He cracked his neck with a hard tilt of his head and shrugged, looking back out into the bar.

"Yeah, well, I guess everyone's seein' folks a little differently now," he mused. "You findin' it okay up here?"

"What d'you mean? Fucking different alien species for a living?" She couldn't help the bluntness. She had always hated it when people skirted around the nitty gritty of her work and Raphael knew that. Knew better than anyone. It was her old habit to push, to confront, and the only reason she'd let Leonardo off the hook was because a debate – a fight – would not have worked in her favour. Raphael's mouth twitched in response – a little amused, a little irritated – and she'd bet money he was thinking _'same old Amber'. _She shrugged. "Yeah, it's fine. I mean, _physically_, it's challenging sometimes. There's a lot of improvisation involved. Only so much can be done sometimes. Most of the time they're just curious about how things work. The money is great. And I love being up here, being witness to all this diversity so up close." She sucked back on her cigarette and contemplated a moment, looking at the curved wall their booth nestled against, where a gouge from some brawl or another rent the surface, mottled around the edges as though it had been scalded in.

"I'm fucking sick of it though," she blurted suddenly. "I mean, just fucking sick of the whole game." She sensed that Raphael had stiffened opposite her, was listening carefully with a furrowed brow and was grateful for his continued silence. She had not admitted this to anyone else before. "I've been doing it so long. So damn long. There's nothing wrong with it, I'm just – " she paused, mused a moment then let her head tip back before slumping forward and sighing heavily. "I'm just so fucking tired." She lifted her eyes to his and gazed at him for understanding.

Opposite her, Raphael nodded slowly, a thoughtfully heavy look on his face. There was no judgement there but in a moment she feared there might be pity and she could not have tolerated that. She didn't want to see him forget everything she had striven so hard to teach him. She ploughed on, reaching defensively for brazenness.

"And I hear you spend your days fiddling with nuts and bolts," she inhaled her cigarette and cocked an eyebrow, smirking. "How very typical."

He took the teasing in stride, willing to accept the nature in which it was intended, letting out a rough chuckle and rubbing his jaw with one hand in such an unconsciously masculine gesture she once again felt butterflies flutter.

"Yuck it up, sweetheart, but you wouldn't believe how good I've got with my hands."

"Raphael!" she was genuinely startled, her eyebrows raising high on her forehead as a helpless grin took over her features in response to his cocky yet self-deprecating smirk. It hit her, all in a rush, how much he had grown from an inexperienced, insecure boy of twenty and her insides turned molten liquid as she considered the world-weary, confident man he had become. Raphael had always swaggered, had always been brimming with machismo. She'd found it attractive, no less so for when she realised he used it to conceal his insecurities – that had been kind of sweet. But now there was something so entirely unaffected in it, it was positively knee-weakening. He no longer had anything to prove. He just was. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Sure, a blushing flower like you? I bet it went right over your head."

She hid her smile with a hand cupped around the flame that lit her cigarette, remembering with a pang the youthful flirtations they had exchanged as kids, before their relationship began.

He had always made her feel a way that she thought she had long lost, cynical and worldly as she was. Somehow, he could still locate the chinks in her armour and slip inside, finding all her helpless and sensitive spots and attacking them mercilessly. It had terrified her back then, forced to confront feelings she was so sure were long gone, and that terror had been the cause of much contention between them. Now, as dangerous as it was, she welcomed it. Lately she had been wondering if she could ever truly feel desire at all anymore. The reassurance that she was still alive, still human, was sweet even though she had no idea where this whole thing was going.

"Do you like it?" she queried and he raised his glass of whiskey to his lips, taking a slug.

"Tinkerin' with engines all day, making shit work, keeping active? Hell yeah. I mean, it ain't always quite enough to scratch the itch so I do some wrestlin' on the side. Not exactly legit of course, but it helps work out what gets pent up and the extra cash ain't no burden either."

"It never is," she rested her chin on one hand with a brow pointedly raised and he lifted his chin in agreement.

They fell silent again, both of them contemplating the other. Amber felt exposed beneath his gaze and wanted to look away, but held strong. He stared back at her steadily, and she felt her heartbeat rise.

"So how did it happen?" he queried finally. "How did you get off it?"

Amber inhaled deeply and let it all out in a rush. It was the last thing she wanted to talk about, especially given the day she had ended their relationship it was because he had pleaded with her to consider getting help. He had been so gentle about it in the way he could sometimes be so unexpectedly, fumbling over words he always had difficulty with, entreating her in a clumsy but sincere manner. And in return she had exploded. Accused him of trying to control her, to take away her independence, that he couldn't accept her as she was – cruel enough in itself when he was the mutant turtle. When he'd confessed, in a cracking voice, he was afraid she would die, she had really lost it. He had endured the fists she'd pummelled him with without flinching – really, she supposed he barely felt them, she'd dropped to seventy five pounds at that point and he was an easy two-ten. He'd ducked and dodged the books and empty instant noodle bowls she had thrown and still remained calm, a terrible sorrow on his brow. But when she'd turned words on him – cruel, vicious words – she saw them strike home with a satisfaction that lasted a mere instant before the devastation of betrayal consumed his features, quicker than he could conceal, and she had despised herself. He'd put himself so far out on the line trying to reach her and she had deserted him. One of his greatest fears. Seconds later, his own defences rose furiously and the fight they'd had was unholy, the walls shaking against the assault of their yelling, threatening to crumble beneath the weight of the terrible things that had been said. It had ended with her screaming at him to get the fuck out, that she never wanted to see him again, not ever, not ever, not ever.

And to make sure she wouldn't, she'd fled the city soon after.


	6. Chapter 6

"I went to New Orleans," she told him reluctantly. "And had a party. For a few months."

Raphael watched her, perceiving all too clearly in her tightened shoulders and flat voice how hard she struggled in the telling of this tale, but needing to know. Needing to know why he had not been incentive enough for her to give up the habit that had ruled her life for so long.

The point where the rim of his carapace met flesh itched and he reached up and scratched and watched her watch him. Their eyes met again and he was aware, once more, of that hot flush of desire that tore through his gut, aroused as much by the new nakedness in her eyes as by the sting of nostalgia and by how goddamn hot she looked. More than once now he'd been tempted to say _the hell with it_, and just grab her. A lot of time had passed since they had been together and Raphael now knew how to interpret the signs that a woman was interested. Once upon a time, when Amber had sent those signals, he had become furious and discomfited with himself, sure he was seeing something that wasn't there. Now he had a lot more confidence and he could feel her responsiveness as tangible as a hand brushing his thigh. However much else he'd changed, he still preferred actions over words and if it weren't for the fact he knew going to bed with her wouldn't solve anything, he'd have opted for that route from the second the scent of her arousal had pricked his nostrils, detectable to him even beneath her perfume and the tobacco, and the odours of dozens of alien species.

"And I overdosed," Amber continued, jolting him rudely from where his attention had fallen unconsciously on the shadow of her cleavage.

Raphael gripped his glass hard in one fist and set his jaw, feeling himself tense all over. Exactly the thing he had feared most. Exactly the dread that had haunted his dreams in the aftermath of her disappearance, rending him night after night from his bed to the dojo where he had worked out his fury and grief relentlessly on the equipment and any brother hapless enough to investigate. Beneath his grip, he felt glass crack and hastily let go of his drink. Across from him, Amber observed silently and sighed, her expression again solemn and sad.

"I died. Clinically, I was dead. But they got me going again and when I first woke up, I wished they hadn't bothered. Because I wanted you to be there and I knew that wasn't going to happen. And I realised all of a sudden what I'd lost – what I'd given up – and there didn't seem a lot of point to anything."

Raphael dropped his gaze to the table, unable to watch her anymore. Beneath his plastron, his heart swelled with an interminable sadness and he knew, from the way Amber's head slumped forward, her cigarette forgotten and smouldering between two fingertips, that she felt it too.

"But instead I went into rehab. And it was one long, horrible, dreary mind fuck. But I made it through. Through sheer, dogged, belligerent obstinance, I got through."

Amber paused again and he lifted his eye in time to see her finally break. "It was you that got me through," she choked, the tears at last tumbling over her lashes and down her cheeks, her final word punctuated by a sob. And he couldn't help it; he reached across and took her by the wrist, tugging her sideways so that she slid around the banquette to him, straight to where he could enfold her in his massive arms.

"Oh God," she sobbed against his plastron. "Oh Jesus fucking Christ."

Raphael's heart beat a relentless and painful rhythm against his sternum, the lump in his throat impossible to swallow around. She felt frail as a bird, pliant and utterly yielding, and he held her carefully and close, lowering his face into her hair, hair that was soft and sweetly scented.

"I didn't mean those things," she cried, her arms sliding up to encircle his neck, her face turning so that their foreheads pressed, his domed and scaly, hers pale and narrow. "Any of them."

"I know," he whispered hoarsely back. "Shh."

How fragile she felt. He'd forgotten. Even with so much more weight on her, she felt so insubstantial against the thick, corded muscle that enveloped her, against the tough scutes he pressed her to. Her cheek had lowered to his shoulder where she continued to sob and automatically one great leathery hand shifted to her hair where he stroked and petted, wanting badly to soothe her.

Raphael had thought that he would resent winding up in this position, the one to comfort and console her, who had turned her back on him so violently when he had risked so much, in so many ways, giving himself to her. But somehow – possibly perversely – it was a comfort to him. He was assured finally that her decision to leave had caused her as much pain as it had him. That she had been living under the burden of that mistake all this time. To know that she had been punished by her own deeds through these long years swept the last of his bitterness away. It was cruel, perhaps, to feel validated by her misery – but for so long her abandonment had haunted him. Had confirmed every awful thought he had ever had about himself.

And she'd cleaned up for his sake, after all. There could've been bitterness in that knowledge, coming as it had long after they had finished, when it could be supposed it no longer mattered. But funnily enough – it did matter. It mattered a great deal.

Raphael dropped his arm back around her waist and pulled her closer, tighter. In the years before, when he had had so much trouble putting even the simplest of his feelings into words and she had postured so tough, so belligerently, these crushing embraces were sometimes the most effective way they could speak to each other. And it was so right then as well.

And the distance between the years shrank and dwindled to nothing.

After a while, her tears subsided, though her grip on him did not loosen. His plastron was soaked and the thick lump in his own throat was still there and he was aware of an antsiness building within him, an impulse he no longer felt so sure had to be suppressed, that perhaps its time had come.

He shifted to prompt her to look up at him and when she did he smiled tenderly a little to see her makeup had scored dark tracks down her cheeks, and wiped at one gently with his thumb. Her eyes red and swollen and full of heartache and her lips softly parted, she was suddenly irresistible and though for a moment he wondered if he were being a sucker - a king-pin, top of the line, a-grade sucker - as he looked into her eyes – so completely without the hard sheen of defence that had been so constant before – with his one good one, another awareness grew within him and he reeled with it a little.

Their roles were reversed.

In the past it had always been he who had wondered if she could possibly, even a little bit, desire him. Truly want him or love him, a mutant freak, not even a mammal, a creature who had been raised in the sewers and forced to hide from the world. It had been he who had always hesitated to touch her, who had anticipated at any moment to see disgust or reluctance on her face. It wasn't until months into their physical relationship that fear had begun to subside. He'd guarded it closely, of course, but she had often guessed and he had loathed how vulnerable that had made him feel. He had always wondered when she would trade him in for something better because how could a relationship such as theirs possibly last? It hadn't mattered that Amber had been voluntarily alone for years when they had met, that relationships had never been on her agenda, that she had no desire to settle down and live any semblance of a normal life, that she kept herself quite deliberately outside the mainstream reality, that being with him was both an exception to her personal rules and an indirect adherence to them. It was his nature to imagine the worst possible scenarios, and to brood upon them, to react against them before they had even occurred. And frankly, being a mutant turtle? He thought he'd had damn good reason to be edgy.

But here and now, it was Amber who feared his rejection. Desperately, painfully feared it. He had the power. Absolutely.

If he wanted, he could turn away and leave her there. That choice was not hers, he could see that truth etched into the tentative yearning on her face. Until he made the decision, she would only wait. And as his huge thumb once again stroked a path across her cheek, he saw how terrified she was, how immensely it would break her, his tough, fuck-'em-all Amber, if he walked away.

He didn't even hesitate.

"Ya got a room?" he rasped.


	7. Chapter 7

_Okay folks, here's where the M-rating comes in! Some fairly explicit sexual content follows!_

**ooo**

Amber's hands were trembling so hard she could barely swipe her access card along the magnetic strip that would unlock the door to her galley. After two aborted attempts, Raphael gently took the card from her hand and a second later the door slid open, permitting them entry.

He prompted her forward with the press of his two large fingers in the small of her back and she shivered at the contact. His skin was cool, as it always was before he'd drawn enough heat from her own. The tense, anticipatory silence that had remained between them since they had left the bar was broken as Raphael whistled at sight of her lavish dwellings.

"Nice digs," he remarked, though his tone was a little too nonchalant and already he had turned his look back to her, to the outline of her figure beneath her dress.

She felt her pulse rise in response, the turbulent emotions that had racketed through them that evening only heightening the flush of desire that was quickly heating once again within her. "I dunno, I think I just like having so much after living with nothing so long. You want a drink?"

"Later," he said, his voice raspy and then he was moving toward her and she was letting her small purse slip from her fingertips, down to the plush carpeting where it hit with a dull thud, and tilting her head back, ready and waiting.

Those huge hands slid along her hips, moving round to the small of her back, tugging her forward until her groin met the very base of his plastron. Her mouth went dry as she looked up into his rugged, scarred face, barely aware she was practically panting to have him so close, her lips quivering as she anticipated sensation in a way she had not for over five years. She saw her desire matched in the deep green fire of his one eye but none of the conflict and insecurity that had been so constant fifteen years before. This Raphael was not her prickly, inexperienced teenager who had never dared initiate their lovemaking, near certain his every touch would be unwanted and rejected. He was an adult now, who had been with others since her, who was living in a world from which he no longer had to hide, where he was no longer regarded as a freak. Right then, in the peak of a desire she had believed would never be fulfilled, it was her – _her _– who felt like the inexperienced kid, terrified to disappoint, at a loss for what to do.

Then he bent his head to hers, and kissed her.

It had been years since Amber had been kissed and she was unprepared for the jolt of feeling it sparked in her, sharp as an electric shock. It was followed a moment later by a liquid sensation that flowed through her thickly, pooling in the base of her stomach as his lips coaxed hers open, his huge mouth playing gently at her own, taking firm control but careful not to consume. Oh no, this Raphael was a far cry from the boy she had been with. Her knees weak, Amber let herself sag against him, feeling the magnificent strength of those arms effortlessly supporting her, and kissed him back.

Her life since breaking her habit had been relatively solitary. She had had a handful of girlfriends – a couple more serious than most – but they had been typically short-lived and far between. She didn't really know how to get close to people, was reluctant to trust and put in the effort. Even physical contact was low on her priority list, given how much of it she engaged in at work. She had horrified Raphael once, long before they were together, by telling him that sex just didn't mean that much to her, that it wasn't something that particularly interested her. What she did at work wasn't like real sex – every move she made, every act she performed, was carefully calculated and executed. There was nothing spontaneous or natural about it. It was work. And whilst Amber knew many women in the game who maintained healthy libidos and active desire for sex, she simply wasn't one of them.

But now she was on fire, feeling her body suffused with a passion that had been so elusive to her over the years she had often wondered if something inside her were broken. It was marvellous to her to think that it was a mutant turtle that could enliven her desire so fiercely, and for greater reason than the shared memory of youthful love and nostalgia – Raphael was fucking _hot_. All that muscle – he'd been buff when she'd met him at age seventeen and had gotten bigger over the two and a half years they had known each other – but now he was _massive_. As they kissed, her palms ran up over the rock-hard curves of his arms, squeezing and loving how the muscle refused to yield. There was a maturity to his features that spoke not just of his greater age, but of the lessons he'd learned and the experiences he'd had. His motley collection of scars were a testament to the heart of steel, the fierce bravery that she had first fallen in love with. Even the eyepatch was titillating. He was still that fierce warrior, though tempered and matured by time. And his kissing skills – Amber gasped as his teeth gently pulled at her lower lip before his tongue delved softly back into her receptive mouth – they had improved out of this world.

Once upon a time, overcoming Raphael's distinct physical differences to acknowledge her desire for him had been a serious challenge. But now – well, Raphael himself had said it – everyone was seeing differently. It had been ten years since the Utrom Arrival. Interspecies relationships were becoming more and more common. Her own extensive experience with a wide variety of alien races had her more receptive to diverse standards of attractiveness than she had been when she had still thought they were alone in the universe. Work had almost become interesting for her again, if not pleasurable – figuring out the logistics of how to bring ecstasy to alien species often dramatically anatomically different to humans was stimulating. Working out how their bodies might possibly fit together was intriguing and challenging.

But Amber did not derive pleasure from her work and never had. Nor was she ever tempted to. Business was business and that was that.

When she did feel desire for another, she was as much excited by the stirring of that feeling as she was by the feeing itself. It happened so rarely.

And Raphael had not just stirred it, but whipped it into a furious, insatiable force.

Raphael gently broke the kiss, pulling back from her and she tipped forward, her head swimming and her legs unsteady. He caught her, half-chuckling, and swept her up easily into his arms.

For a moment, Amber mourned the total loss of her cool and attempted a moment of wit to save some face: "You're all grown up, I see," she breathed, as he carried her over to where her bed, bedecked all in jewel-toned satin and silks, occupied a sizeable portion of the room.

He smirked as he laid her down, looking pretty goddamn pleased with himself. Then, as he joined her on the bed, a touch of the blustery kid came back as he bashfully confessed: "Actually, if we didn't lay down soon, my knees were gonna give way. Not exactly the look of manly sophistication I was going for."

She flushed with pleasure to hear this admission he was as affected by desire as she, giggled like the girl she'd never gotten the chance to be and laughed outright as he fumbled about on the slippery satin to get close to her.

"Let's get rid of this shit," he growled, yanking the covers up so that she tumbled backwards up to the head of the bed, still laughing, and tearing them from the bed to reveal the cotton sheets she preferred to actually sleep within. Then he was quickly divesting himself of weapons, pads and belt while she watched, leaving only the mask – of course, of course. Everything familiar yet nothing exactly the same – even the way they laughed together recalled bittersweet echoes from the past, yet it was as though they were discovering just how to amuse each other for the first time.

Most profoundly, for her, was his assertiveness. Amber's belly did flip flops as he knelt on the bed and edged towards her, his expression focused and intent. Her breath caught as between his legs she saw that his tale had dropped, that the slit of his cloaca was parting. Her heart thudded as one giant hand grabbed her round an ankle and yanked her towards him, her shimmering long dress hitching up to reveal her pale and freckled thigh. Thrilled and nervous, flush with anticipation and wonder, Amber curled beneath the looming shadow of his plastron and waited. It was unspeakably exciting not to be the initiator of every move, to not have the tedious burden of directing the action whilst calculating the best way to arch her spine or tilt her head so that she might look her most titillating. To be, for once, simply natural.

The sex she had had with Raphael when they were still kids had been hesitant and fumbling but terribly sweet and beautiful. Once she had overcome those initial physical barriers, she had been surprised by how much he had turned her on, all his bulk and muscle, his macho nature – and his wonderfully tender, fervent desire to please her, the unexpected gentleness and caring that lay just below the surface of all that machismo; even his unsureness has been sweet.

She didn't know if he had ever realised, but in a way she was as inexperienced as he. It went far beyond him being a mutant turtle and her having no real idea what to expect with his body and needs. That was actually the easiest part.

The truth was that the only sex she really knew how to have was in a professional context – a performance geared not towards a mutual experience of passion and affection, but to the ultimate objective of her client. She had been a prostitute since she was fourteen years old and her very few relationships had been fractured and brief. There was nothing in her work for her except her wage – and that was how she liked it. So as she and Raphael had explored their strange, shy love, she had felt as fumbling and insecure, as consumed with performance anxiety, as he had been.

But he had needed her guidance so much whilst she so desperately had craved his initiative.

But that was fifteen years ago.

As Raphael's single eye roved her figure, she knew he was not hesitating – merely contemplating exactly where he wanted to begin. And she wondered if he had ever imagined this moment, as she had – though it had never been quite like this. She knew she had idealised their relationship beneath the film of sentimentality as the passing years made her yearn for what she had lost, what she had squandered. She had never believed she would ever get to see him again, but whenever she had indulged such a wistful fantasy, she had recollected them as they were, not as they could've become. Had envisioned herself paying homage to a love she could not be sure was simply the spectre of nostalgia. She had not anticipated that she might be at risk of falling in love with him all over again, with the adult who bore unmistakeable resemblance to that boy of nineteen – and yet who was an entirely different person. Had not expected this mature and seasoned Raphael would stir her lusts of his own accord and not simply because of the tender memories she held of young love. Who was exciting and intriguing and inspiring in ways that recalled the youth he had been but that were very much the result of years of experience she had not been witness to. Who had her all but pinned below him now and was sizing her up with a distinctly predatory look in his eye. Her loins tightened and she felt her nipples strain against the thin fabric of her gown, trembling as she waited his next move.

Suddenly, the animalistic gleam fled his expression and was replaced by one of thoughtful pensiveness as he reached down and gently lifted her left arm, turning it so its inner flesh was laid exposed to his gaze. Amber felt a flush overcome her as the fingertips of his other hand gently traced the track scars that still littered the tender skin of her elbow. She struggled between the urge to wrench back her arm and yell abuse at him, to turn her face away and endure the intimate examination with a discomfort she wasn't sure was shame, or to brush it off with a laugh and show him the other scars that littered the places between her toes. A moment later it didn't matter, because he bent his face to the crook of her arm and pressed his lips there in a long, hot kiss.

Amber's heart clutched and a second later she was sobbing, gasping for breath between her tears and his mouth was moving up her arm, sending tremors of pleasure through her body that juxtaposed violently with the painful emotions that had overcome her. Raphael's head reached hers, his mouth sought hers out and they kissed passionately as she clung to his shoulders for stability, feeling like she was at any moment in danger of losing all that remained of her grip on whatever defences she had left.

But he had her. One impossibly strong arm slipped behind her back, scooping her against the bony plating of his plastron, the hand of his other cupping her face, her head fitting the curve of his entire palm, his mouth ravaging hers as hot tears scalded her cheeks. In the sea of churning emotion she was so unused to, he anchored her to him and they tumbled along together. He let her rest against the mattress again as his hands moved to the low cut neckline of her dress which, in one sudden movement he tore open, ripping the filmy fabric from her body. She almost wanted to laugh again, knowing that in his passion that had probably seemed the most effective and practical way to undress her, and it was so absolutely _him_ and yet so completely something he would never have dared do in the past – when he had always helped her undress carefully, even tentatively – that she went giddy with feeling, moaning and arching her spine as his rough, battle-battered hands slid over her pale skin, over the planes of her belly and the ridges of her ribs, the soft mounds of her breasts. There was nothing premeditated or strategic in how she responded to him; she reacted without thinking, only feeling and it was a wonder that had her head reeling as his mouth explored her body, moving with fierce tenderness to the place between her thighs so that she gasped and felt the room spin wildly around her.

She hooked a leg around his neck as for the first time in years her mind connected with her body and she permitted herself to experience the sensations his tongue caused. She had forgotten it could be like this. Beneath him, she felt unmade, felt the years of jaded indifference stripped away, leaving her reborn fresh and young again.

He brought her to the brink and, with the knowledge gained from experience accumulated during their separation, stopped before she tumbled over, rising up over her again, nudging her legs further apart with his knees to accommodate his girth, and in one decisive plunge had entered her.


	8. Chapter 8

_Fairly explicit sexual content continues!_

**ooo**

Amber cried out when they joined, her head tipped back and eyes squeezed shut but as frenzied with lust as he was, he was still paying close attention and knew there was no pain, no reluctance. She was wetter than he could ever remember her being and though her body was tight and firm around him, it was utterly receptive and he glided in without effort.

He had to pause for a moment, his weight balanced on his forearms, and marvel that they had reached this point, after all this time and all that had passed. He had not imagined them together like this since the childish fantasies of reconciliation had ebbed finally to a pensive end some two years after she had disappeared. He had not ever believed it would actually happen and a part of him still wondered if it really were. If Raphael had ever contemplated crossing paths with Amber again, going to bed with her had not even entered the picture. And yet, here they were, sprawled on a ridiculously decadent bed on a space station the equivalent of a galactic Heathrow, floating far above the earth, him tail deep inside her.

Amber's eyes slitted open and she gazed at him from between her lids, her expression raw and defenceless. She had been so absolutely perfect when he'd first lain eyes on her in the bar, a glittering mirage of aloof, calculated seduction that seemed to move through the chaotic environment around her untouched. With her makeup in shambles and her hair tousled hopelessly out of its coiffure, her naked body revealing she was still just a little too thin and retaining scars that told silent stories of her own considerable battles through life, he saw glimpses of the defiant, brazen girl she'd been when he'd first loved her and it turned him on furiously.

But this Amber was different, too. She had surrendered to him so completely, so easily, in a way that she had never quite before, when they were young and starting their crazy journey together. Back then she had been his instructor and his guide, the one who coaxed him into action when he had feared always that she would spurn him at any moment. Now he had time and experience behind him, a confidence to act on the dominance that felt most natural to him to assume, assured that he had learned the ways to satisfy his partner in the process. And though she could easily have assumed her old swaggering cool or vicious indifference, the brutal defences that had been so critical to her – that he had seen were still a vital part of how she moved through life – she had instead succumbed and allowed him to simply rend her heart and soul open right before him, even knowing that this time it could be he that spurned her – payback for the damage she had done so long ago.

It was sexy as hell.

Raphael pressed his forehead to hers, gazing into her tear-reddened eyes, his arms slipping around her back to hold her painfully fragile body close against him, feeling her tighten around him, feeling the muscles that encased him so intoxicatingly quiver from the proximity of the final ecstasy he had brought her so close to, breathing into her as her hands squeezed helplessly at the hard muscles of his shoulders.

When he started to thrust, their ragged moans mingled as one in blissful relief and as primed as she was, with the edge of his plastron pressed against the precise right spot as they had discovered so long ago that it could do, it only took three or four quick pumps and it was over for her, her nails digging into his muscle even as the rest of her went deliciously limp as wave after wave of pleasure moved through her, each one punctuated by the clenching of her sheath around him. He watched her hungrily, devouring every detail of her orgasm so that it whetted his lust and his thrusts grew quicker and harder and she was gasping and crying again, holding his face clutched in both her hands, holding his gaze riveted in her own, in the naked feeling there, so defenceless and deep it threatened to consume him.

His own breath came in hoarse, ragged gasps as he moved inside the body he had known once, made love to a woman who was at once disconcertingly familiar and yet a total stranger. This woman who was so prepared to bare her tenderest places to him with the merest resistance, utterly at odds with the world-weary teenager who had somehow always held him at arm's length, even when it had been she who made the first move. This Amber had another fifteen years of life behind her – and if he knew anything about her at all, that life had been hard and defined by brutality – yet she seemed younger somehow and all at once ripened and fresh, her fragile body deliciously soft and, however slim she remained, full with a healthiness that she had not had before.

Amber responded to his hardened thrusts by pushing her groin up against him, hooking an ankle around the back of his knee, her lips kissing his then allowing him to take over with his greater ones. Then her fingertips were brushing over the patch that covered his lost eye, fumbling at the corners to push it up and over his eye ridge, baring the empty socket sealed with eyelids scarred shut to her and he did not resist as she broke their kiss and pressed her lips to the scar.

Suddenly, he felt the encroaching inevitability of his own ecstasy, building at the base of his loins with a rush that only gathered in speed and that urged his hips to move faster and harder, Amber's strangled cries of pleasure dimly reaching his ears and heightening the intoxication her soft, pliant body, strongly distinct scent and the delirious taste of her that lingered in his mouth made him giddy with.

As his climax hovered dangerously close he had the vague presence of mind to let her go back against the mattress, remembering he could too easily crush her if he held her pressed against him too tight. He fisted his hands into the bed on either side of her head, his mouth again seeking hers as finally he could hold back no more and his entire body stiffened and he went tumbling over the brink into a euphoric plummet that left him weak and limp before it had even fully subsided.

They lay still, entwined in each other for a long, breathless time, him keeping his weight lifted at least a little on shaky forearms, her face buried in his neck, her lips so soft against the leathery but sensitive skin there. He didn't want to leave the warmth of her body but too soon his erection was softening and beginning to retreat back into his tail. Beneath him she shifted and moaned wistfully to feel it and he lifted his face from where it nestled in her hair to look down at her, suddenly feeling a little sheepish.

"Hey," his voice was low, throaty.

Her lips quirked in a smile and then her fingers were gently stroking the scales of his cheek and he glimpsed the same shyness in the shadows of her eyes.

"Hey," she replied quietly.

He lowered his head at the same moment she lifted hers and they kissed tenderly before he rolled off of her with a groan, reaching back to tug her close to him, grabbing one of her legs and slinging it across his lower scutes, running one huge hand up her thigh, over her hip, down the dip of her waist and back up to the point her arm met her side, his huge palm cupping her shoulder and squeezing, his calloused skin relishing the creamy smoothness of hers. Amber sighed heavily, contentedly, and traced her fingertips over the deep grooves that etched his plastron, remnants of battles past. He realised his eye patch was still pushed up on his head and reached up to tug it down, then hesitated before wrenching it off completely, along with the strip of red material that was his mask, discarding it to the carpet. Carefully, he fingered the seam of his eyelids, sewn together long ago.

Amber stirred, shifting so that she could fold her forearms on his plastron, resting her chin on them and gazing up at him. She was so achingly lovely. He had always seen beauty in her, even when she was at her most wretched and ugly, but now, at thirty-seven and in good health, enjoying the afterglow of their intense lovemaking, she was gorgeous. Not conventionally beautiful really, but there was something about her he had always been drawn to and now it was emphasised in the soft lines around her eyes and the new fullness in her face and breasts.

"I didn't believe this would happen," she said after contemplating him silently for a long moment.

A smile half tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I never even thought about it," he admitted.

She lowered her eyes, smiling a little but not without a touch of anxiety clouding her face.  
"I'm glad it did," she said quietly. "Are you?"

He did not miss the plaintive note skirting the edges of her voice, how exposed and fragile she seemed as she ducked her head, shoulders hunching up to her ears. Then, most heart-rending of all, how she set her jaw and hardened her eyes, poised to posture so tough if he said no. How things changed, how they stayed the same.

Raphael sat up, feeling the dip and sway of the mattress beneath them, cupping her ribcage with his hands and drawing her between his legs, disarming her once more so that bruised softness came back to her face, so quickly, so easily, and fifteen years seemed at once an eon and a mere heartbeat.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm glad."

He was a little scared by how deeply his heart thumped as he held her and it occurred to him that this was all happening insanely fast – too fast. This was kid's stuff. They were both too old to be carrying on this way, had both seen too much of life and the damage it could do to be gazing so moonily into each other's eyes like this. They hadn't even carried on like this when they _were_ kids.

And yet – and yet – so the fuck what? They were adults. If they were making a mistake, then it was theirs to make. He was old enough, wise enough, strong enough to walk away. He didn't want to. And clearly, neither did she. And whilst Raphael had never had much patience for any sort of mystic bullshit, it seemed to him that they had been brought back together for a reason.

Maybe a second chance.

Maybe now they were older and wiser and had sorted their shit out they could make it work this time.

Maybe not.

But was there really any harm in giving it a try?

Amber shifted in his arms, reaching out across his legs to the shining gold bedside table, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from its top drawer and lighting one. The lighter flame briefly illuminated her face, her smeared makeup revealing the familiar old freckles beneath, making his heart swell at her flawed realness. She offered him the pack but he shook his head and she scooted around on the bed so that she faced him, sitting cross legged between his splayed knees, her nakedness soft and lovely, the milky fairness of her skin speckled heavily with freckles and already making him stir again.

"So what happens now?" she asked him throatily, smoke drifting from between her lips, a wary hopefulness glittering at the very back of her eyes but a steely resolve in her voice that was prepared for anything.

Raphael cocked his head to the side and scratched his neck, regarding her with an inscrutable composure.

"Now?" he replied. "Now we have a drink."

Amber's lips twitched a little and she nodded, the film of her old cynicism slowly rising across her gaze. He flickered his eye up and down her body; recalled vividly the addictive passion they had shared just a short while ago and felt his tail twitch.

"Then we fuck some more," he continued and she caught her lower lip between her teeth, a gesture at once eager and coy and he pondered again how there was so much more they had to learn about each other now. And realised, with a wrench at his heart he didn't fully understand, how badly he wanted it.

"And then," he began, his voice raspy, before pausing. He reached out a hand and crooked a huge finger beneath her chin, tilting her head so that he could look directly into her eyes, needing to see clear through them and straight into her soul, as he spoke the words that seemed so inevitable, despite it all, despite everything. "Then you come back to Earth with me."

Her expression transformed, the barrier she'd been slowly, steadily erecting tumbling down to reveal a disbelieving and tentative joy, a look that erased twenty years of accumulated cynicism and jadedness and replaced it with a touching hopefulness she would've dismissed instantly fifteen years earlier. He couldn't help a wry grin in reply, his thumb rising to swipe down her lip in a gentle tease.

"After that? I guess we'll figure it out."

And then she was in his arms again and they were kissing fervently, passionately, without restraint or doubt or fear, and it was nothing at all like it had been all those years ago. Then they had known all along, on some level, they were doomed. Now there was only the promise of possibility.

And as Raphael rolled her over under him once more, feeling the tremble of passion in her grip on his arms, the desire and delight in each ragged breath he drew from her throat and how his own heart swelled and his spirit soared with a fierce joy that had never come easily to him, he knew that there was nothing more anyone could really ask for.


	9. Author's Note

_That's it, I guess. For now. _

_There was a bunch of stuff I wanted to refer to in this story that just didn't fit in and I can't see myself writing another TMNT fic anytime soon so I'll wrap it up here:_

_As my canon is a hybrid of the 2k3 toon, the 2k7 movie and the Mirage comics, I play pretty liberally with sequence of events – the Utrom Arrival happens while the turtles are in their twenties, not their thirties, in my fanon, so that earth's adaptation to alien species and intergalactic travel can be well established by the time this story takes place_

_Depictions of "Future Raphael" usually feature him with an eye lost in battle so I stayed true to that._

_Raphael's other girlfriends have been Angel (whose heart he broke), Joi (yes! I like s5!) and Lucindra (the original Black version, I hate that they whitewashed her in her other appearance!)._

_Amber has a lot of missing teeth replaced by false ones. She also gets skin peels to minimise her freckles (remember she was heavily covered in them), the occasional botox injection, has her own teeth whitened and one or two other minor procedures as desired though she leaves her track scars untouched._

_Remember Amber has Hep C? She still drinks like a fish, you would've noticed. She takes superior medication developed by the utroms and made widely available to help keep it sorted. Deus-ex-extra-terrestria, yes, bite me._

_Amber was an excellent piano player as a young woman, established in Dust of Life. I believe that after she got clean she started playing again, plays constantly and extensively, and so when she and Raphael return to earth, she gets work as a pianist and gives up sex work._

_Some other stuff:_

_I like the idea of Amber going from living in squats, never wearing makeup, constantly shabby, becoming this groomed, materialistic woman who adores creature comforts. It's not as dramatic a swing as you might think. Giving up the gear made her get back in touch with life and who she IS._

_Amber has always been bisexual, I established that in… Dust of Life, I think. I believe she would gravitate towards women more than men, generally speaking._

_Oh yeah, regular penetrative sex exercises the vaginal muscles, keeping them toned and firm, not loosening them as so many sadly believe (it's a misogynistic myth intended to shame women for having lots of sex okay, at any rate any muscle can be exercised and firmed at any time of life so no one's body is 'ruined' by lots of sex, get those ideas out of your heads right now)_

_If some of the people who read my Raphael & Amber stories back in 2007 read this, they may be dismayed by the turn things take in this story. They may be disappointed Amber cleaned up, that Raphael took her back, that this is basically a happy ending. I got a lot of positive feedback for not making everything all rosy and shiny in my stories._

_And if you are uncomfortable with their reunion, think Raphael is taking a huge risk or whatever – that's perfectly okay! Truth to tell, I tried to imbue the story with a sense that this might not be the RIGHT thing for them to do. But our lives' decisions are not always made based on what is "right", but more often on what we want and need and I believe the unfolding of these events are as realistic as any of the ones I used to write. It's a happy ending, but it's not a perfect ending. It may not work out long term. It may be based more on nostalgia than either of them realise. It may all go belly up. They have a LONG, hard road ahead of them for a lot of reasons (can you imagine Leo's reaction!). I like to think they can make it last, but if you don't – I am perfectly at ease with that. I've never wanted readers to necessarily agree with me or have simple emotional responses to what I write. I've just wanted to make people think and feel things about complex characters in complex situations._

_Back when I was first writing Raphael and Amber's story in 2007, I knew there was only one way that relationship could end: in tears. I never got around to actually writing the stories of them together, as a couple, or of their breakup. I hooked them up at the end of 'Prey', made it clear in 'Sparring' and 'Choices' that they had a sexual and romantic relationship and that it was basically a pretty toxic situation that was moving towards an inevitable end, but never more than that. In all honesty, I wasn't comfortable writing more about it. I was twenty-seven and a less experienced writer and writing about two teenagers having inexperienced, awkward sex and trying to figure each other out, both incredibly damaged in their own ways – eh, I wasn't at ease with it. Hey I believe in challenging oneself as a writer, I just didn't feel like it back then. Writing about two adults having hot, experienced sex and figuring each other out as a much older woman myself? That came a lot easier to me. And yes, it really did take me this long to be comfortable writing mutant turtles doing the do so explicitly. Hey, I've grown up a lot myself (but not enough to stop writing about mutant turtles having sex… ahem)._

_It was never any big secret I drew on a lot of Amber's experiences as a drug user and sex worker from my own. We are very different people with very different outlooks on many things and some strongly similar ones. There is nothing wrong with being a prostitute. It's a very complicated issue but too many people reduce it to black and whites and I have always striven to depict the complexities of the reality of what working in the industry means in my writing. My stories are not intended to condemn Amber for being a prostitute or prostitution itself. If you read that into my work then either I have done something terribly wrong or you are projecting your own perspective and I wish you would stop. I am also not condemning injecting drug use, another vastly complicated subject. But I knew for Raphael and Amber to come back together, she had to quit. It was either she quit or she die. And you know what? Once upon a time – and I even told this to Nekotsuki when we met up for lunch this one time – I imagined that Amber would die. _

_But I decided I loved her too much and I loved her with Raphael too much to let that happen. I knew their relationship couldn't have lasted when they were young – but all this time on? They could have another chance._

_The primary obstacle to Amber and Raphael's relationship has always been her drug use, NOT her job. Yes he has some issues with it, but it's not anything they can't overcome. That Amber has grown weary of the work by the time of this story is because she's being doing it for twenty years and it's pretty normal to get sick of any job after twenty years if it isn't your lifelong passion. _

_I aged Amber down! Originally I wrote her as about 24 to Raphael's 17 and I really don't know why. It makes no sense to me. So I've shortened the age gap to two years. In this story Raphael is 35 and she is 37. I'll have to go back and fix that in my other stories… eventually…_

_Raphael getting back in touch with reality through his interactions with Shadow may ring deeply cliché and hokey but the truth is I have had a horrible few years and the birth of my niece really got me through. Often when I am really wondering what the point of anything is or getting hung up on other people's bullshit, I spend time with her and come out the other side with a greater grip on what's really important. Hokey, maybe, but no less real or sincere for that. Kids are pretty magic_

_It was really enjoyable to revisit the Turtles and the world I created for them, and Amber too. I am glad I took her to where she is now and I hope that you will be too. Thanks for reading - your reviews and concrit are most welcome._


End file.
